| It starts with a spark, a breath and a moment of still,
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| A flicker, a glow, as the oxygen spills through a delta of spindles and stone,
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| Kindled from nothing in a whisper of smoke.
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| And there a gift ignites; |
| a cursive thought takes flight,
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| And there’s a dancer, twisting in between the spines.
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| Give her the breather’s kiss, and watch her spirit lift,
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| She’ll take over the stage, and she’ll own the night.
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| Learning how to make a name from the words we can’t keep in.
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| Learning how to strike a flame, and draw hellfire from nothing.
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| I don’t know where to begin, to make these words take shape,
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| How to nurture a flame, and raise it to a blaze
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| That on the clearest night can be seen forever.
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| I don’t know where to begin, begin again.
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| It’s not enough, cause outside the night is still cold.
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| The fog is collected on the sill.
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| Feed the house to the fire to let out the light,
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| Consumed and inspired, burned magnesium white.
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| It spills from the hearth.
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| Take the curtains, the carpet to fuel the insatiable fire inside.
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| We’ll set fire to a hill, so intense that it will be the brightest star on this
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| side of the sky.
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| Learning how to make a name from the words we can’t keep in.
|
| Learning how to strike a flame, and draw fire from nothing.
|
| I don’t know where to begin, to make these words take shape,
|
| How to nurture a flame, and raise it to a blaze
|
| That on the clearest night can be seen forever.
|
| I don’t know where to begin, begin again.
|
| I don’t know where to begin, to make these words take shape,
|
| How to nurture a flame, and raise it to a blaze
|
| That on the clearest night can be seen forever.
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| I don’t know where to begin, begin again. |